


Visiting Mycroft

by wheel_pen



Series: Indigo [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a visit to Mycroft’s office, Indigo zones out and attacks Anthea in defense of Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visiting Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

“— _massive_ ego, just takes delight in these ridiculously grandiose gestures, overdramatic—“ Sherlock ranted as he stormed through the cavernous hallways, heads turning as he passed serious-looking people used to hushed tones. He was irritated at being summoned to Whitehall by his brother—that was Indigo’s five-second summary of the situation.

He was hungry; Sherlock had insisted they leave before Indigo could eat lunch or even grab a granola bar, his annoyance with Mycroft blinding him to everything else. Times like these Indigo realized how hard Sherlock worked to be considerate of him normally—well, ‘normally’ being when he was in a good mood, not distracted by a case, not bored out of his mind, and not frustrated with the demands of society.

So, not _all_ the time.

Still, Indigo had been in worse situations.

He _was_ rather hungry, though. And he doubted he could save the pasta he’d taken off the stove only half-boiled. It would be a mess to clean when he got home. Best not to think about it now.

Sherlock made what he felt was a particularly apt judgment about Mycroft and turned to see Indigo’s reaction, only to realize Indigo was no longer following him. His temper flared, already inflamed by his brother’s imperious ‘invitation,’ and he stomped back around the corner to find Indigo stopped by the wall, staring off into the middle distance. People were looking at _him_ nervously, too.

Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him forward, bringing him back to full engagement. “Don’t you have an autopilot setting, at least?” Sherlock snapped, towing him along.

“Sorry,” Indigo murmured, insincere because when Sherlock looked back at him he was gone again, walking when led but nothing more.

“Well _I’m_ sorry I’m so _boring_ for you!” Sherlock groused. He kept his future mutterings about Mycroft to himself, however.

He felt Indigo’s hand twitch in his as they entered a small office and saw that the slave was back, glancing around the room assessingly. “It might have been useful for you to learn the way here,” Sherlock couldn’t help sniping. “I’m not going to explain it to you.”

“I remember,” Indigo said, his steady, flat tone seemingly reliable. Sherlock immediately resolved to test this on the way out.

His childish manner spilled over to the waiting receptionist. “Is the great man in?” he demanded, with deep sarcasm. “We’re _expected_.”

She smiled with professional detachment and sent a message. The reply—from Mycroft himself, Sherlock presumed—took _just_ long enough to arrive that he was starting to get _really_ impatient. His brother had timed it exquisitely. At least, it was what Sherlock would have done, in his place. Then the receptionist nodded that they could go in, and the large set of doors they faced opened, seemingly of their own accord.

Sherlock thought to reach back and grab Indigo’s hand again before going forward. “This is my archenemy’s lair!” he claimed. “Shouldn’t you be on the alert?”

“You explained he was only your brother,” Indigo pointed out, giving the large, ornate office a brief onceover. Sherlock huffed.

“Oh, _there_ you are, Sherlock,” Mycroft remarked, from his seat in a wing-backed chair near the fireplace. “Late as usual.” A sound at the far end of the room was Anthea entering with a tea trolley.

Sherlock flopped into the facing chair, graceful even when he was trying to be uncouth. Indigo knelt quietly at his side, scooting up a bit so he could see his master better around the chair’s enormous arms. “What’s the big emergency, then?” Sherlock demanded peevishly.

Mycroft feigned innocence. “Emergency? No _emergency_ , dear brother.” Who really said ‘dear brother,’ anyway? “I merely wanted to meet your new slave.” His eyes flickered down to Indigo, who kept _his_ carefully on the carpet.

“You’ve met him twice.”

“When he was not required, foolishly, to act like a free man,” Mycroft clarified. “And after you’d had a chance to get used to him. How do you find him?” His face took on an expression of almost comical interest.

Sherlock thought about complaining, because he _felt_ like complaining, but he didn’t like Mycroft knowing anything about his personal life. Well, some knowledge was unavoidable; even now they were both sizing the other up, deducing whatever they could from stray threads, crumbs, blobs of ink. Sherlock didn’t like to deliberately hand over anything, though. “He’s alright,” he finally answered, taking a page from Indigo’s book. Mycroft smiled thinly in response.

Anthea began fixing a cup of tea for Mycroft and Indigo rose to do the same for his own master. Their eyes met briefly, then went back to their work. Any talk between them in front of their masters would be strictly functional, if it had to happen at all. Without hesitation, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, Indigo brought the teacup and saucer to Sherlock, who took it while still gazing stonily at Mycroft. Then Sherlock noticed that Indigo was still hovering—and holding a small plate of biscuits out to him.

Sherlock shifted his eyes up to Indigo’s. The man knew how he felt about _food_. So he hadn’t brought the biscuits for Sherlock, really. “No,” Sherlock told him simply, rejecting the snack, and he saw the flicker in Indigo’s eyes right before he straightened back up and went to return the biscuits to the trolley. Sherlock gritted his teeth; he was doing this wrong, and he hated doing things wrong. There was just a lot to keep track of, what with Mycroft and all—but, well, Sherlock _was_ a genius, surely he could handle it.

“Would you like some tea and biscuits, Indigo?” Sherlock asked, while Indigo was still at the trolley. “Help yourself.” Of course, while he was getting them, he looked about as excited as a robot, but when he returned he knelt down on the floor right next to Sherlock’s feet and brushed his leg slightly, so that was a win.

When Sherlock looked up, though, he saw Mycroft staring at him with one eyebrow raised in bemusement. “Perhaps I should ask Indigo how he finds _you_ ,” he commented dryly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not really seeing the point of that remark. “He’ll give a very dull answer,” he predicted. “Go on, answer him,” he permitted Indigo.

“He’s alright,” the slave replied automatically, without looking up. Then, just as Sherlock was scoffing, he added unexpectedly, “He cured my leg.”

Mycroft blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, right, his _leg_ ,” Sherlock remembered, delighted at the chance to brag. “He was limping when I got him, had been for _years_ , cane and everything—“

“I know, I met him,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Yes, when you kidnapped him,” Sherlock agreed disdainfully. “But I cured him, and he was running all over London within the day! No limp at all anymore.”

“How curious,” Mycroft judged mildly. “Are you sure he wasn’t faking it?”

Sherlock looked askance at his brother for suggesting this, but Indigo seemed content with his tea and biscuits and didn’t react. “Of course he wasn’t! It was his psychosomatic pain he’d had since he was injured in the Army. It says in his file,” he added, to prove he’d read it.

“Oh yes,” Mycroft agreed, and although Sherlock couldn’t say he was _surprised_ Mycroft had checked up on his new slave, he did rather wish he wouldn’t be so cavalier about it, like it was really any of his business. “Anthea,” he went on, addressing the young woman who knelt by his side, “did you know that Indigo here was born free? And _chose_ slavery, rather than be executed after his court-martial.”

Sherlock glanced down at Indigo, who had finished his tea and biscuits and knelt there quietly, eyes on the floor. He knew Mycroft was trying to provoke a reaction from him—well good luck. From the slump of Indigo’s shoulders Sherlock knew he was well on his way to his happy place and wouldn’t hear a word.

Sherlock fought to keep his own expression composed as Mycroft’s confusion became apparent. “He was a doctor, too,” he went on with a frown, “an Army surgeon, a captain. But he went behind enemy lines to perform surgery on a local boy, and when he snuck back, he was caught in an attack and wounded. And then accused of aiding—What _is_ he doing?” he finally demanded of his brother.

Sherlock made an obnoxious show of innocence. “What? Oh, _that_.” He waved it off, setting his tea aside. “That’s the thing he does.”

“The thing he does,” Mycroft repeated, despairing of the vagary.

Sherlock fluttered his hands unhelpfully, as though he was describing some mystical phenomenon. “Yes, his _thing_ ,” he emphasized. “Like meditation. He doesn’t like to talk about his past. So he goes… into the zone.”

“The zone.”

“Yes. A trance, or a different plane of existence, or maybe a mind palace,” Sherlock mused. “I haven’t decided what to call it yet. Extremely disciplined.” He found it admirable right now, especially because Mycroft disapproved. Maybe _only_ because Mycroft disapproved.

“Indigo,” Mycroft said sharply, a bit loudly. No response. He handed his teacup to Anthea and reached over to snap his fingers in front of Indigo’s face.

“Won’t work,” Sherlock predicted smugly, and indeed it didn’t.

“He does that whenever he doesn’t want to talk about something, or do something?” Mycroft surmised. He snorted. “No wonder he’s been sold so many times. It’s not really a positive trait, Sherlock,” he told his brother patronizingly. “A slave who goes comatose instead of doing what he’s told? That’s a very bad habit.”

Sherlock disagreed on principle, because it was Mycroft. “He does it when he’s bored, too,” he pointed out, as if this was a good thing. “I don’t mind, he’s quiet.” The part about him not minding was, of course, a complete lie. Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Sherlock narrowed his. “He _does_ do what he’s told, he just didn’t want to talk about his past, which you were only doing to upset him anyway,” he pointed out defensively.

“It’s a defect,” Mycroft judged harshly, possibly just to upset Sherlock this time. “I find it unlikely you’ll have the patience to break him of it,” he predicted sadly, shaking his head as if the entire thing was doomed.

Sherlock knew he wanted to argue with him, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to insist he _could_ change Indigo, or that nothing needed changing in the first place. The only thing he was certain of was how irritated he was at his older brother, who always seemed to know just what buttons to push, and Sherlock grew tenser as he seethed.

“Take Anthea here,” Mycroft went on, lecturing pedantically. “When I acquired her she had the most awful habit of biting her nails. It took some time and creativity, but I was able to train her out of it. Now look at her. Show him your nails, my dear. Patience, consistency, discipline—“

Sherlock did not care about Anthea’s fingernails and he did not care about his brother’s methods and he was starting not to care about Indigo, who had begun this whole mess—in Sherlock’s mind, anyway—and he scoffed derisively as Anthea leaned closer and held out her hand to him.

In an instant Indigo moved, grabbing Anthea’s wrist and knocking her to the floor. Sherlock swore and yanked on his shoulders. “No, no, stop, it’s alright,” he told him quickly, physically pulling on the slave with an arm across his chest. He eased Indigo back between his legs, feeling his heart pounding with adrenaline, and Sherlock leaned down to murmur in his ear, for a moment not caring that Mycroft would see. “Calm down, breathe, it’s alright. Deep breath. It’s alright.”

Anthea had taken the opportunity to fling herself into Mycroft’s lap and force attention from him, overplaying her distress Sherlock was sure. “Are you alright? Let me see.” She winced as he delicately handled her reddened wrist, and they both turned to the visitors accusingly.

“Sorry,” Indigo gasped out, alarmed at what he’d done. “Sorry, I thought she was—“

“He was just protecting me,” Sherlock defended, against Mycroft’s glare.

“She wasn’t threatening you,” he snapped. Anthea whimpered and he resumed stroking her hair.

“He didn’t realize that—“

“Because he wasn’t paying attention,” Mycroft pointed out sharply. “I told you it was a defect.”

“She’s not even really hurt,” Sherlock protested.

“ _Really_ , Sherlock.” Mycroft gave him a look of disgust.

“Look, he’s quiet now,” Sherlock insisted. “He’s not _violent_ —“ Indigo reached up to grip Sherlock’s hands across his chest, as if fearful of the consequences if his master let him loose, and Sherlock had a sudden vision of the cabbie jerking and collapsing to the floor with a bullet in his chest. “He’s just trying to protect me,” he repeated. He was not sure anyone had tried to do that before.

“Go put some ice on that,” Mycroft instructed Anthea, sending her from the room. Once she was gone he turned an icy gaze on his brother. “Well?” he said expectantly.

“Well what?”

“How are you going to discipline him?” Mycroft wanted to know. Sherlock felt Indigo tense in his arms.

“I’m not,” he replied, as much to the slave as to his brother. “I’m not going to discipline him.” Mycroft did not like that answer. “He didn’t do anything wrong—“

“He attacked Anthea. Without provocation,” Mycroft stated coldly. “You need to discipline him, Sherlock, or he’ll do worse next time. I know you’re new at this, but surely you should be able to give him a few lashes with a riding crop, pretend it’s one of your exper—Oh, he’s gone again,” Mycroft huffed, as Indigo relaxed in Sherlock’s grip. “That’s really maddening.”

“Of _course_ he’s gone!” Sherlock replied angrily. His back was starting to hurt and he took the opportunity to straighten up in his chair, slowly so as not to bring Indigo back. “He doesn’t want to listen to you talk about beating him!” He left his hands on Indigo’s shoulders, hoping it reassured him somehow. “Anyway, I’m not going to do that.”

“You have to do _something_ ,” Mycroft insisted. He seemed calmer now, more interested in studying Indigo than anything else, and in the back of Sherlock’s mind he wondered if this was all just some sort of test.

The front of his mind was just mad at his brother, though. “Don’t tell me what to do with _my_ slave,” he sputtered. He’d get up and walk out right now, if Indigo wasn’t weighing him down like an anchor.

“Well if you’re just going to let him do whatever he wants, you’re not to bring him around me or Anthea again,” Mycroft ruled.

“No great loss!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s childish behavior. “Well maybe you could punish him without violence, since you’ve suddenly gone squeamish,” he suggested disdainfully.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t pretend you’re so strict, you’ve never laid a hand on Anthea,” he shot back.

Mycroft ignored this. “Perhaps you could send him to bed without supper,” he said sarcastically.

Sherlock had actually been contemplating this—not necessarily for today, but he was not _unaware_ that slaves in general sometimes required discipline. He’d been _thinking_ about it, despite Mycroft’s assumption to the contrary. “Happened often enough to me,” he grumbled, of the suggested punishment.

“Yes, and look what happened,” Mycroft noted dryly. “Instead of learning to behave, you just stopped eating.”

Sherlock had not made that connection before, nor did he automatically concede it was true. He would think about it later. Certainly going to his room to be alone with his books and experiments as a child had been no hardship on him, despite the lack of food.

Mycroft no longer seemed upset at all, but merely sat in his chair watching Indigo like a hawk looking for telltale twitches in a field mouse. Sherlock decided to ease away from the discipline conversation. “He’s very responsible,” he told his brother, finding this novel. “He saves credit card receipts! And compares them to the bill before paying it.”

Mycroft was not surprised Sherlock was letting a slave use his credit card, or log in to his account and pay the bill. “At least someone does.”

“And, he cleans. All the time!” Sherlock went on. “He even vacuums the couch! Do you think that’s normal?” he wondered, suddenly worried. “Does Anthea vacuum couches?”

“Someone does, I’m sure. They’re always clean,” Mycroft observed. He had a rather larger staff than Sherlock could have put up with. “Can you bring him back if you want?” he asked curiously.

“Yes,” Sherlock assured him. “But I won’t, if you’re just going to talk about beating him again,” he warned. “It upsets him.”

“We shouldn’t want to upset him, should we,” Mycroft deadpanned. Sherlock needed further convincing. “Alright, I _promise_ I won’t mention disciplining him,” he said, with exaggerated care. “But you had better figure out a way to do it. It’s part of being a responsible slave owner.”

“G-d,” Sherlock sighed, as if this was the most pointless conversation in the history of _ever_. Mycroft gave him a pointed, slightly challenging look, as if daring him to prove he could actually manage _some_ aspect of Indigo, and Sherlock leaned over again, murmuring in one ear while gently stroking Indigo’s cheek with the side of his thumb. He did not want to know what Mycroft made of _that_. “Indigo. Wake up, Indigo. Time to go home.” Sherlock was done here, anyway.

Indigo’s eyes hadn’t closed, of course; they never did when he zoned out, they stayed open and unfocused, blinking regularly with an unnerving blank stare. Now he blinked faster and drew in a breath, taking in his surroundings anew and assessing what he could remember. Sherlock wondered how many times he’d ‘awakened’ in someplace he had no memory of getting to.

“That’s it, you’re alright,” Sherlock promised him, and Indigo tipped his head up to look at him, as if saying, _Don’t patronize me._ As far as Indigo was concerned, he was definitely _not_ alright, because he’d done something wrong and was awaiting punishment for it.

“Stand up,” Sherlock told him, and he hurried to obey, carefully putting his own master between him and Mycroft.

The Holmes brothers stood as well. “Lovely to see you, thanks for the tea,” Sherlock claimed acidly.

“Always an adventure,” Mycroft replied, equally insincere. Sherlock took Indigo’s hand and led him towards the door. “Oh, Mummy was asking about you,” Mycroft added, and Sherlock looked back over his shoulder at him. “Hoped you would visit her soon.” Sherlock noted this but had no intention of revealing his thoughts on it to his brother.

Now that the meeting was over Sherlock was eager to be on his home territory again and found he was practically dragging Indigo through the halls. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked impatiently, watching for signs of a limp. He supposed there was no reason it couldn’t return, if he was sufficiently traumatized. Well, meeting with Mycroft was always unpleasant, but surely not enough to—

“I need to—“ There was a men’s room up ahead and Indigo veered towards it.

Sherlock released his hand, or tried to. “Well go on then,” he insisted. “I’ll wait out here. I’m not going in,” he protested, resisting Indigo’s attempt to pull him. “Do what you must. By yourself.”

“Could you just please—“ Indigo silenced and stepped aside as a man came out, lowering his gaze as a proper slave should.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed. Anything to get out of here faster. This was Mycroft’s comfort zone, not his. He followed Indigo into the bathroom, watching with bemusement as the slave made sure there was no one else there. “Well?” Sherlock prompted, gesturing vaguely towards the urinals.

“Could you lock the door, please?” Indigo requested. He seemed a bit agitated and Sherlock flipped the lock on the door immediately, his mind crossing out a few theories and searching for others.

“You didn’t want to have sex, did you?” he checked. “Rather bad timing, and Mycroft’s car would be more comfortable than the loo—“

Indigo laughed a little, so Sherlock assumed he was on the wrong track. The slave leaned back against the wall heavily and started to slide down it. “Don’t sit on the floor,” Sherlock demanded, marching over to grab his arms. “It’s disgusting.” He pinned Indigo to the wall, or maybe was the only thing holding him up. “Now what’s wrong with you?” Sherlock searched his face but reluctantly had to admit he didn’t know the man well enough to make a guess.

“Um, I’m sorry,” Indigo opened, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow questioningly. “For attacking Anthea.”

“You didn’t really attack her,” Sherlock clarified matter-of-factly. “You just grabbed her wrist. She was carrying on to get attention from Mycroft, she’s insufferable.”

This failed to meet whatever need Indigo had. “No, he was right—“

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped reflexively. “He’s never right. About anything. Regarding me. What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Indigo admitted. “I didn’t want to talk about my past with him.”

“Right, obvious,” Sherlock agreed briskly, waiting for his point. “I told him that.”

“But you were tense, and then with her fingernails—“ Indigo sighed.

Sherlock filed away the knowledge that his own tension affected Indigo, and he made an effort to relax his current posture. “I couldn’t care less what you do to Anthea,” Sherlock assured him.

“Well, I shouldn’t have done it.”

“You went from twirling around your mind palace to attack mode in the space of a heartbeat,” Sherlock pointed out. “That’s very impressive. I’m not going to tell you to stop doing that. Because next time it _will_ be real.” His eyes met Indigo’s for a long moment, deadly serious.

“Tw-twirling around my mind palace?” Indigo finally repeated lightly, clearly finding this a bit ridiculous.

Sherlock gave him a little bit more space, judging he could stand on his own now. “Well, wherever you go, when you aren’t here anymore.”

“If I hadn’t been doing that, I would’ve realized Anthea wasn’t a threat,” Indigo said again, reluctantly arguing against himself.

Sherlock was beginning to find it tedious. “Yes, and I’m sure you’ve been beaten for it before, which just reinforces its necessity.” He took the slave’s hand firmly. “Can we leave now?”

Indigo did not resist when Sherlock led him back out of the men’s room. “So you’re not going to punish me?” he asked quietly, mindful of the people around them. He couldn’t let this be ambiguous, though.

“Punishments are dull,” Sherlock opined, _not_ mindful of those they passed. “Do you _want_ me to punish you? Is your psychology so warped you require some external inducement to change your behavior? Like a child?”

Indigo didn’t want to push, pushing could be dangerous; but not knowing what he was supposed to do was worse in the long run. “You just indicated you didn’t think my behavior _should_ change.”

They were outside now, waiting on the car from Mycroft that would return them home. “Then why would I punish you?” Sherlock asked reasonably. He watched Indigo parse this. “Good G-d, Indigo, it’s not a riddle!” he snapped. “No, I’m not going to punish you.”

They got into the back seat of the plush car, a screen separating them from the driver. “You get frustrated when I…” Indigo made a vague gesture to indicate zoning out.

“Well, yes,” Sherlock agreed. “If I wanted to talk to someone who made absolutely zero response I’d talk to my skull.”

“You _do_ talk to your skull,” Indigo couldn’t help pointing out. He was not sure whether he should be glad Mrs. Hudson had returned it or not.

“Exactly,” Sherlock confirmed, as if that cleared everything up. It didn’t. “Alright, look, yes, it’s frustrating,” he stated. “But you must’ve had a good reason for doing it in the past. Maybe try to do it less. Especially when I’m talking to you.”

Indigo nodded slowly. “But you’re not going to punish me for today?” he asked once more.

Sherlock groaned and dropped his head back against the seat. “Now you’re punishing _me_ ,” he claimed. “This is a circle of h—l, being forced to repeat myself over and over.”

Indigo smirked the tiniest bit at his dramatic complaint. “Sorry.” Pause, and Sherlock thought that would be all. “It’s… not what I’m used to,” he added slowly. He turned to face the window, watching the city blur past. “Not being punished.”

Sherlock did not want to make him any false promises, or promises he couldn’t keep. “Well… don’t disturb any of my experiments,” he warned, trying to think of something that would make him angry. “I would definitely punish you for that.” He was serious, but Indigo had been good about avoiding Sherlock’s experiments so far, so he didn’t think it would be a problem. The slave nodded soberly and went back to looking out the window.

Sherlock thought about being back home at Baker Street, and that reminded him of the haste in which they’d left. “Are you hungry?” he asked Indigo suddenly.

“Yes,” Indigo said promptly, which pleased Sherlock—he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d faded out already.

Sherlock flipped a switch on the door. “Driver, take us to… Kitchener’s Deli on Broad Street.”

“ _Yes, sir_ ,” came the reply, and Sherlock cut him off.

“That’s on the other side of town,” Indigo noted with some confusion. He reminded himself to just shut up and be grateful he was going to get food.

“Is it?” Sherlock remarked innocently. He reached over to take Indigo’s hand and tug him closer, until he was straddling his lap. “What could we possibly do…” Sherlock asked, nuzzling Indigo’s neck above his collar, “in Mycroft’s car, to pass the time?” Indigo suspected he had a few ideas already.

**

By the time Indigo reached Mycroft’s office, Mycroft was not surprised to see him. Indigo expected he’d been watched and tracked since first entering the building. He hadn’t really thought he’d get as far as Mycroft’s office, though.

The man’s blue eyes—quick like Sherlock’s but more disarming—darted over him, and Indigo met them for a long moment before lowering his gaze as was proper. “Yes?” Mycroft prompted.

“I baked cookies for Anthea,” Indigo said, indicating the box he carried. “And I wrote her a note of apology.”

“How considerate,” Mycroft commented dryly. “I’m sure my brother didn’t think of that. You can leave them here.”

“Beg your pardon, sir,” Indigo countered, tone carefully subservient, “but my master said to give the cookies directly to Anthea.” Because Mycroft would eat them all, Sherlock had claimed, but Indigo didn’t think it was prudent to mention that.

The way Mycroft rolled his eyes said he probably knew Sherlock’s opinion anyway. “Anthea!” he called, and the door behind him opened, admitting the young woman. She stopped warily when she saw Indigo. “He has a present for you,” Mycroft assured her, and she came forward to the side of his desk.

She was a pretty girl, smart, professional. She’d found a good position for herself, Indigo decided, and he didn’t begrudge her that. As much as Sherlock said he loathed his brother, Indigo had a feeling he would be running into her again, and he didn’t want to have bad blood between them. He held the box out to her, with the card on top. “I’m terribly sorry about the other day,” he told her, offering a pleasant smile. He tried his best to forget Mycroft was there.

Anthea’s eyes darted over to her master, but she accepted the box. “Thank you,” she told him, and a tentative answering smile began to bloom on her lips.

Enough was enough for Mycroft. “You can take those to your room,” he said abruptly, and Anthea nodded, turning to leave quickly. At the door she paused just long enough to give Indigo another smile, then disappeared.

“Did my brother punish you for misbehaving?” Mycroft wanted to know, regaining Indigo’s attention.

“No.”

Mycroft was not surprised by the content of this answer, only the delivery. “Don’t you mean, ‘no, sir’?” he corrected.

“My master doesn’t require me to use titles,” Indigo informed him mildly.

“Oh your master doesn’t,” Mycroft repeated archly. He leaned back in his chair to study Indigo, who knew he shouldn’t leave until dismissed. He could always lie and say Sherlock had ordered him back home right away—even if Mycroft knew it wasn’t the truth he couldn’t do anything to Indigo. One simply didn’t handle someone else’s slaves without permission, especially in anger. Of course Indigo had never had a master who wouldn’t do twice as bad to him when he heard a complaint from someone else.

“Excellent reflexes,” Mycroft finally commented, and Indigo knew they were back to the tone of their first meeting—testing, measuring. He cocked his head to the side slightly and waited. “That fading-out trick is not really safe, you need to keep your wits about you now,” he judged. “Save it for the worst-case scenario, if you’ve been caught.” He didn’t specify by whom. “Isn’t it interesting how you’ve become attuned to Sherlock, to protect him, after so short an acquaintance.” Indigo was not sure what response to make, so he made none. Mycroft frowned. “Indigo?”

“Still here.”

“Ah. Just checking. Well, I think if you can work out a few little kinks, you’ll be very good for Sherlock,” Mycroft concluded.

“I’m glad you approve.” Indigo could not help adding this.

He should’ve known Mycroft wouldn’t let it slide, though. “Learning how to blend in better might be a start,” he suggested, severely.

Indigo was not going to make an enemy of Mycroft Holmes. Not as long as his brother owned him. Failing to be subservient enough was not the sort of thing that made an enemy of Mycroft, Indigo surmised.

Failing to protect his brother, however, was.

“I’ll mention it to Sherlock,” Indigo responded, more sincerely. “He doesn’t much care for blending in.”

Mycroft snorted. “No. You may go.” Indigo nodded once and turned to leave. “Your leg,” Mycroft said suddenly, and Indigo turned to look back at him. “He really cured it?”

“It was just in my head,” Indigo downplayed. That seemed safer.

“Mm-hmm,” Mycroft replied, as though he knew more than Indigo felt comfortable with, and the slave left quickly.


End file.
